


what's a handjob between friends?

by saltydorkling



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Canon Divergence - Post-Avengers (2012), Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Masturbation Interruptus, Minor Injuries, Not Canon Compliant, Size Difference, Size Kink, and a functional team, and we were all young and happy, but fuck canon anyway, thor is not an idiot, when there was compound living, y'all we're jumping back to 2012
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 08:30:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20224873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltydorkling/pseuds/saltydorkling
Summary: after an accident leaves clint (and his hands) on semi-long term medical leave, a few frustrations start to build up. fortunately for clint and his massive case of blue balls, thor is willing to, well,lend a hand.(in a manner of speaking.)





	what's a handjob between friends?

* * *

It all began with an accident.

To be fair, an accident was also how Clint’s life began and he always sort of believed that’s how it would end, too, but this accident was the worst variety. It came fast, unexpected, and entirely fucked up his life for the next few months.

The incident happened during a regular, garden-variety mission. Bad guys came, bad guys were stupidly incompetent, bad guys got their asses kicked. Except there had been a little slip up between steps 2 and 3. See, a broken clock is right twice a day, and occasionally the cerebrally challenged had a real lightbulb of an idea. In this case, it involved a kid—because that’s really what they were, just dumb kids in way over their heads—with a spellbook and a keen eye. The kid spotted him, saw him notching a blunted arrow, and panicked. The spell fell off his lips as quickly as if he were denying to his mom that the weed baggie was his. 

Then, suddenly, the bow and arrow burned, burned like he’d grabbed something from the oven and couldn’t let go; he could hear himself screaming and swearing as the magically heated weapons fell from his grasp, but for all the liquid-hot pain overloading his nervous system, his mind was utterly frozen.

His hands. God, would he ever be able to use them again?

* * *

_Yes_, says Doctor Cho, but there was a worry line between her brows. Yes, but the magical damage couldn’t be forced to heal, not by Strange nor Wanda, so he would have to wait it out. _Weeks, maybe longer, we can’t be sure_—

_It could have been worse though_, in that soothing voice that drove him crazy. That’s what everyone says: _You’re lucky it wasn’t worse_, and yeah, they had a point: he could have lost his hands entirely. But they weren’t the ones with their hands bandaged, unable to perform even the most basic tasks. They weren’t the ones who had to stare out into a sea of pitying eyes until they nearly drowned.

They also weren’t the ones who couldn’t even jerk off.

He’s not ashamed of admitting that, mind. Clint’s a hot-blooded guy surrounded by some of the most attractive men, women, and nonbinary people in the world. Hell yeah he jerked off, sometimes two or three times a night. Four, if he’d had coffee before bed and had to burn off the excess energy.

And now… that was snatched from him, too. His livelihood and, with that, his usefulness to the team, and he couldn’t even masturbate to take some of the edge off.

Because of this, nearly two weeks later on one late, frustrating night, he ends up prowling the hallways of the compound until he finds himself in a seating room, gritting his teeth and feeling altogether snappish. Clint hasn’t really been like this since he was a teenager, all wound up and looking for a fight. He doesn’t need to be: usually nowadays the fights find him whether he wants them or not. And, like all the other Avengers, Clint has his fair share of serious fuckin’ trauma—not being able to defend himself just makes that prickle of anxiety, of the _you’re not safe you’re not safe you’re not_—that sometimes played in his head even here, in arguably the safest place on Earth, even worse.

Which explains why, when he hears the floorboard behind him creak, Clint’s first reaction is to spin around with a snarl, ready to kick the living shit out of whatever’s behind him

But it’s only Thor, standing bare-chested and massive in the doorway with his palms held up in a gesture of surrender. Like Clint, he only has on a pair of low-slung soft pants. He gives an easy smile, a friendly one. “I apologize,” he says, “I could not find sleep and took to wandering.”

Clint exhales sharply through his nose, ignoring the steady throbbing in his hands. “Makes two of us, bud.”

Thor’s eyes drift down towards the bundled up mitts that are Clint’s hands. “Are you in pain?”

“Yeah,” Clint says. He drags himself over to the couch and slumps down into it. “But not because of my burns—well, yeah okay, that hurts, but they gave me some good shit to take the edge off. No, there’s other…” He trails off, unsure of how to phrase ‘_I really want to jerk off until I give my dick a friction burn but I can’t’_. Maybe better to just not say that at all. 

Thor makes a low sound in his throat, something akin to agreement, and sits on the couch next to him. The damn thing groans under his weight and Clint chuckles as his end lifted slightly. “There’s other…” Thor repeats, “What, may I ask?”

“Needs.”

“What needs?”

“Just needs!” Goddamn, does he really have to say it? Spell it out? Maybe do an interpretive dance about his longing for a little bit of self pleasure?

Thor cocks his head—no, not cocks, _tilts_, Clint is not going to think about cock right now—then nods. “I understand now,” he says. “And, if I may, I would like to offer my assistance.”

Clint’s brain halts, then does a funny little jig as he tries to figure out what Thor means, before finally giving up entirely. “Uhh.”

“With your problem,” Thor clarifies, or rather, attempts to clarify. Because right now it sounds like Thor is offering to help get him off and that, surely, cannot the case. But Thor holds his gaze, steady, promising, then his eyes flicker downward and Clint realized with a jolt that the son of a bitch is serious.

“You want to jerk me off?” He sputters. “Is my hearing aid going fucky or am I just insane now?” 

“Neither,” Thor shakes his head. “I merely wish to help you… not hurt.” There’s that easy smile again, the crinkle around his eyes that’s so charming one could almost forget that the man can rip a person in half without breaking a sweat. “Will you allow me?”

“Well, that’s uhh… that’s a thing you just offered, for sure,” Clint says, dumb. “You’re sure?”

“You are a friend and comrade,” Thor widens his legs, bracing one on the floor as he opens up his entire upper body. “And, I confess to admiring you. Your wit, your companionship, your—” here Thor’s eyes sweep over his body “—physique.”

Clint licks his lips. There are worse things in life than getting a handy from an actual, literal, flesh and blood god. And it’s been almost two weeks…

“Yeah.” Clint’s voice is soft, so he clears his throat and repeats it louder. “Yeah.”

Thor’s grin splits his face, blindly bright, even as his eyes go lust-dark. “Then come,” he rumbles, and yeah, that’s exactly the plan here.

“How should I—” but before he can finish the question, he understands. Clint turns around on the couch, then scoots back until he’s in between Thor’s open legs.

“Higher,” Thor states, then lifts him up like he weighs nothing and settles him into his lap like it’s a divine throne. “Perfect. Now lay back, my friend, and I will relieve you.”

Clint allows his head to fall back; it’s cradled into Thor’s neck, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Besides, Clint might have… well, a thing, for larger men. And Thor is pretty much as big as they get, so he may as well enjoy this while he’s got it.

Thor’s hands skim down Clint’s torso, bare because he hadn’t been bothered to put on a shirt, then slip under the waistband of his soft sleeping pants. Clint takes a shuddering breath, but Thor doesn’t immediately go for his dick. Instead, he drags his hands back up—his huge hands, heavy hands, leaving a burning trail across Clint’s skin—then down again. Feeling him. Perhaps even measuring him.

“Forgive me,” Thor says in his rich, deep voice and Clint can actually feel the vibration from Thor’s chest into his own. “It has been a while since I have lain with a Midgardian. You are…” Thor’s torso gives a strange quiver, “…small. Fragile.” His voice drops an octave or two.

Oh. _Oh_. Normally, Clint would Object™ to being called fragile, but he definitely is compared to a man that has been hit by a car going full speed and was only mildly annoyed by it.

“I am merely reacquainting myself,” Thor continues, his breath hot in Clint’s ear. “Relax, _lilla fågel_.”

Clint takes in a deep breath and exhales slowly. Relax, Thor had said. Relax and enjoy this… because it’s been a fortnight too long since he last jerked off, and even longer since he’d been with someone else. Superheroing tends to get in the way of Tinder dates, go figure.

So Clint slumps back, mentally embracing the warm, solid body against his. He slurs, “What’s that mean?”

But Thor merely shushes him in a gentle tone, nuzzling against Clint’s head. His hands end their roaming and return to where they are needed most. Clint is hard, of course, he’s been hard since the moment he settled on Thor’s torso. “Be careful,” Clint warns, “or I’ll go off like a damn bottle rocket and I wanna enjoy this.”

Thor huffs, fond. “Very well.” The fingers of one of his hands wrap around his cock and Clint lets out an unashamed groan. God, god, _godfuckthankyou_ it’s been too long.

“You uh,” Clint’s voice breaks as Thor’s other hand begins to stroke his inner thigh. “You got bottle rockets on Asgard?”

“We have bottles and we have explosives, so… yes.” Thor’s voice sounds dry, but in more of a teasing way than to express any real upset. He presses his lips to Clint’s temple. “Now hush, _lilla fågel_, and let me work.”

“Do a good job and I’ll give you a raise.”

Thor nips his ear for that and Clint doesn’t hold back the bubble of laughter that swelled up and out of his mouth. He hasn’t laughed in two weeks, and that felt good, too.

But not quite as good as Thor tightening his grip on his cock. He slowly starts to pump, steady and composed, taking his time with it. Clint doesn’t mind—he wants to get off, _fucking Christ, he wants to get off_—but he isn’t so stupid as to just throw this away in two strokes. How many people could say they got a handjob from a god? So he reins it in, clenching his abdomen until his muscles hurt. Calm, he thinks, groping for the mindfulness techniques that helped him when he was a tot learning how to shoot an arrow. Patience, focus—

Then Thor brushes his rough cheek against his ear and Clint lets out a strained whimper. “_Min lilla fågel_,” Thor breathes, hot and heavy and he shifted his hips—oh. Oh, Clint can feel his cock then, pressed against his ass, hard as a rock and huger than Clint had felt before. Clint chokes out another sound. He presses back against the cock, spurred by a gratifying hiss from Thor. “This is for you,” Thor reminds him, voice decidedly less controlled than it had previously been.

“Yeah,” Clint slurs, caught between rocking into Thor’s hand and grinding back against his cock. “Goddamn right, all about me, and me wants—uh, I want—it like this.”

“Like this,” Thor rumbles back. He chuckles then, a dangerous sound, and maybe it’s Clint’s imagination, but he swears that he hears the slow yawn of thunder outside. “Like this?” The hand not wrapped around Clint’s dick—thankfully—slides back up his tight abdomen, tracing a burning path to his chest. Two fingers with callouses probably older than his grandda pinch at his nipple, rolling the little bud into a stiff nub as Clint moans. His head lolls helplessly, and he’s trapped in the best of ways.

They find a rhythm—a stroke, a whimper, a pinch, a grind—both panting out hot breaths from their aching chests. Clint’s had handjob’s before, had great ones, but this is like none of them and even if he lives to be as old as Thor, he’s not sure he’ll ever have another like it.

And then Thor does something entirely unexpected that unravels Clint like a loose knot—Thor kisses his forehead. Just a peck, a brush of the lips, but care in that simple action utters undoes him. Clint shoots of like a bottle rocket—no, probably more like one of those Asgardian bottle rockets, actually, because he keeps coming, keeps pumping thick white ribbons across Thor’s fist and into his own thatch of pubic hair. 

“Oh Jesus, oh god, oh fuck,” Clint chants, tossing his head back and forth as though he were a boat caught in a tempest. It’s pornographic how much jizz is leaking out of him, but he can’t seem to stop until he finally bats Thor’s hand away with his mitten of bandages.

Thor lifts his sticky hand, but he doesn’t move—he just quivers under Clint, a low growl in his throat, his cock huge and thick against Clint’s ass. 

And yeah, this was supposed to be all about him, but like Clint says—he wants more. Wants Thor.

“Wait,” he gasps, “hold on, I’ve an idea.”

“I cannot take you,” Thor says, each word sounding forced from behind his teeth. “We lack lubricant and I—”

“Sh, sh, shut up, stop talking.” 

“Normally,” Thor grumbles, nosing Clint’s temple, “I would strike a man down for such disrespect.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, wiggling his hips and until he can toss his sleeping pants entirely off to the side. “But I get a pass.”

“Indeed you do, _lilla fågel_.”

“Now you,” Clint demands, “Get it out, I have a plan.” He braces his feet and awkwardly lifts himself half up so Thor can wiggle his clean hand between them. After a moment of struggle, Thor groans and Clint feels his dick burning him like the Holy Grail. “Come down a bit…”

It takes a bit of positioning, but before long, Clint has them arranged in such a way that Thor’s dick is pressed between his thighs. There’s not much else for lube, so Clint maneuvers Thor’s spunked up hand and presses it on his inner thighs. The jizz is cold now, but it’ll warm up soon enough.

Satisfied, Clint lays his head back and gives a little wiggle. “Have at it, bud.”

The first few thrusts are tentative. “I do not want to hurt you—”

“Come onnn,” Clint taunts, tossing in a flirty lilt. “You can fuck me harder than that, right?”

Thor’s arms clamp around him, iron manacles that squeeze the breath out of him and Clint just gives a delighted laugh. He truly starts to fuck then, his cock ramming in and out of Clint’s squeezed thighs, slicked with cum. The head is delicious, the same color as a Big Red candy, and Clint wants to taste it—would it taste like other dicks? Would he even be able to fit it? Because even after penetrating the cushion of his thighs, there’s still plenty of Thor’s cock to admire. 

“_Min lilla fågel_,” Thor groans and yes—Clint definitely hears a crash of thunder outside and isn’t that just something to be smug about? His thighs alone are making a god lose control. 

Between the relentless pounding and the tightening grip—the hard chest and the low grunts—Clint feels like he’s been tossed head first into a storm and he’d be lying if he said that didn’t frighten him a little. But he wouldn’t be where he is now if a little fear stopped him from what he wanted.

Thor’s using him like a doll. The thrusts become sporadic, losing their rhythm, and a gasp of ‘_lilla fågel—’ _is all the warning Clint has before strings of jizz shoot out, coating his thighs, his abdomen, and one enthusiastic spurt reaches his chin, making Clint laugh. He looks like a one man bukkake, covered in a staggering amount of cum, both his own and Thor’s. 

“Fuck,” says Thor, weak, and Clint cackles all over again because he wasn’t even aware Thor has a potty mouth.

“Dirty,” Clint replies between rib-aching laughter. “Dirty mouth.”

Thor nuzzles him. “You have no idea just how… dirty… my mouth can be.” The pressing, needy heat is gone from his voice, but the suggestion makes Clint’s tummy do a little dance.

“You, uh. You interested in giving me a demonstration?” Clint hedges. “Tomorrow night?

Heedless of the sheer about of DNA evidence splattered across Clint’s belly, Thor lays a hand on his stomach, rubbing his thumb back and forth and back and—oh, Clint realizes with a wicked inner grin. Thor doesn’t just have a size kink, he also loves to admire his handiwork. “It will be many nights before you are healed,” Thor rumbles solemnly, though it’s ruined by the grin Clint can feel against his head. “What friend would I be to not offer my aid when you need it most?”

“Tomorrow night, then.” Clint rolls off Thor and looks down to survey the damage. He makes a face and demands, “Go and get me some napkins or something, I’m not walking out looking like I just came off a porn set.”

“Impudent,” Thor shakes his head. “My heart is too forgiving.” He stands then, and it might sound weird, but sometimes Clint can almost forget how tall he is—and sometimes he’s reminded in such a way that knocks the wind out of him and makes his dick twitch. This is one of the latter occasions. He bends his head, eyes hooded and dark, and for a flash, Clint thinks he’s about to be kissed—but Thor turns, tucks himself back into his pants, and ambles out of the sitting room.

So hooking up with a god (and scheduling another) wasn’t exactly what Clint had expected from tonight but, he thinks as he stretches his arms up and revels in the warm glow of a much needed orgasm, he isn’t about to complain.

* * *


End file.
